! You won't laugh at me when I tell you that everything,
letters, handkerchiefs, dresses and everything belonging to people have
a feeling in them--something that tells secrets? I can't quite explain."

"I have heard very sensitive people express some such idea. It sounds
very fascinating. I should like very much to hear about it."

"Would you? You are sure you won't think me queer? My niece, Mary
Coombe, does not like me to tell people about it. She has no imagination
herself, none at all. She says it is all nonsense. But I think,"
shrewdly, "that she would like to know some of the things that I know.
Won't you come in, Doctor? Come in and sit under the tree where it
is cooler."

The doctor's hesitation was but momentary. He was keenly interested. And
at the back of his mind was the thought that Esther must certainly be
along presently. Fate had not favoured him of late. He had not seen her
for five days. It is foolish to leave meetings to fate anyway. Then, if
another reason were needed it was probable that if he stayed he would
meet Esther's mother. He was beginning to feel quite curious about
Mrs. Coombe.

"Thanks. I think I will come in. All the trees in Coombe are cool, but
your elm is the coolest of them all. Let me arrange this cushion for
you. Is that right?"

He settled Aunt Amy comfortably upon the least sloping portion of the
old circular bench and, not wishing to trust it with his own weight, sat
down upon the grass at her feet.

"Now," he said cheerfully, "let us have a regular psychic research
meeting. Tell me all about it."

"What's that?" suspiciously.

"Psychic research? Oh, just finding out all about the queer things that
happen to people."

"Do queer things happen to other people besides me?"

"Why, of course! Queer things happen to everybody."

Aunt Amy seemed glad to know this.

"They never talk about them," she said wistfully. "But, then, neither do
I. Except to you. What was it you wanted me to tell you?"

"Tell me what you mean when you say that you read in a letter what is
not written there. You see I haven't much imagination myself and I don't
understand it."

"Neither do I," naively. "But it seems to be like this--take this
letter, for instance, when I found it in--well, it doesn't matter where
I found it--but as soon as I picked it up, I knew that it was a love
letter. I felt it. It is an old letter, I think. And some one has been
angry with it. See, it is all crumpled. But